


Outside Looking In

by lanri



Series: Unseen [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindness, Brother Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Unseen 'verse, outside pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:51:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly following Sam losing his sight. They all see different things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Doctor

Mark rubbed his eyes and fumbled for the phone. He wasn’t on call, so he had no idea who would be calling him at—he looked at his clock blearily—2:00 am. 

NP on duty was Donna, hopefully. She was the most short-winded of the bunch. “Donna?” he mumbled. “What is it?” 

“Mark, this is John Winchester.” 

At the gruff voice, Mark sat up straight, the hunter’s name automatically setting off a rush of adrenaline. “John? What’s wrong?” 

“My son. He was injured in a hunt, and I need to take him to someone. You’re close.” 

“Of course. Does he need the ER?” 

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” 

“Work,” Mark mouthed to his wife and she settled back to sleep easily. Mark got up quietly. 

There was a strange hesitation over the line. “No. This isn’t . . . this is more like a curse.” 

Mark’s world expanded a little more. All he knew about were ghosts, and he shivered. “Look, John, if you can, give me more to go off of so I can prepare.” 

“Some ancient creature got the drop on Sam and was in the middle of performing a ritual when we got there. Took away his eyesight, so he’s blind.” 

Mark hissed through his teeth, one-handedly pulling on the slacks he had worn that day. “Right. Are his eyes bleeding, is there any external trauma?” 

“No. They’re white, though. His eyes . . . they’re completely white.” 

This was far beyond his pay grade. Mark cringed, running through the little he knew from his ophthalmologist friend and med school days. “Sure you can’t go to a specialist?” 

“No, Mark. This isn’t something that can get out.” 

“I hear ya.” Mark felt around for his ID and keys, shoving his feet into loafers. “I’ll be at the hospital in five minutes. How long ‘til you get here?” 

“Give us fifteen.” 

“Alright. Try and act like it isn’t an emergency, get your kid in through the front doors. I’ll be down there to avert any suspicion.” 

Mark got to the hospital in record time, hanging around the front. The Chevy Impala that was so distinctive roared up, and Mark momentarily flashed back to the terror from a year ago. A kid jumped out of the car, and Mark shook the thoughts away. 

“Dad, go park, I’ve got him,” the kid barked at the front seat, before turning to the backseat and dragging another from within. 

“You the doctor?” 

Mark nearly jumped at the self-assured and sharp way he was spoken to by the boy. 

“Yeah,” he said. “That Sam?” 

The smaller one was practically limp in his brother’s arms. “You help him,” the elder said fiercely. 

“Carry him like he was asleep,” Mark ordered. The younger was small enough that they could at least make it to the elevators without attracting suspicion from the nurses on call or the video cameras. 

“C’mon, Sammy, I gotcha.” The kid hoisted Sam into his arms, the smaller body instantly wrapping arms and legs around him like it was instinct. 

Mark swiped them in, glancing at the boy at his side. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“Dean,” he responded shortly. 

“Alright, Dean. What can you tell me about the circumstances?” 

Dean grunted a little at Sam’s weight and wrapped his arms more securely around him. “He was strung up, and that thing—” Mark was startled by the absolute venom coloring Dean’s voice “—was painting some symbol on Sammy’s eyelids. There was another symbol on his forehead too, Dad thinks it was to keep him paralyzed.” 

Poison? Some kind of supernatural poison to make him blind? Mark bit his lip in thought, punching the elevator number absently. 

“There’ll be an empty exam room. I’ll take him there,” he decided. “Once we get there, go out and get your dad. I’ll come out when we are through.” 

Sharp green eyes scanned Mark, the focus in them almost scary. “You get him better,” Dean said lowly, and Mark could swear it was a threat. 

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, letting them into a room and switching on the light. 

“Here, Sammy.” 

Mark busied himself with washing his hands while Dean set Sam down on the examination table. 

“You’re gonna be fine, okay little brother? I’ll be right back, I’ve gotta go get Dad.” 

“Don’t go, Dean, please.” The kid’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. 

“I told you, Sammy, I’ll be right back. Be strong, okay?” Dean’s hand brushed the side of Sam’s face in a tender gesture that seemed almost ill-fitting with his leather jacket and rough demeanor. 

Mark noted Sam’s hand clenching on his leg, like all he wanted to do was reach out to Dean, but the boy let his brother go without comment. 

“Alright, Sam. I know you’re probably freaked, so I’m going to talk you through this, okay?” 

Sam nodded, chin jutting out. Mark felt his heart break slightly at this kid’s bravery—he had once sworn to never have kids, being a pediatrician in the PICU had him seeing enough pain to know the implications, but for a child like this . . . 

“Can you see anything? Shadows, shapes, any light at all?” 

“It’s all black,” Sam said, his voice wobbling a little. 

“I’m going to examine your eyes now, Sam. I’m putting my hand on your face,” Mark said calmly. 

Sam still flinched slightly as Mark nudged his chin upward. He shone his light in Sam’s eyes, finding nothing but opaque whiteness. It wasn’t a simple cataract . . . the kid’s irises were even gone. But there was no external trauma to explain any of that. 

Mark ran a few more tests, each time growing more and more anxious. There was no sign of Sam’s ability to see even being a possibility . . . it was as if he had been born blind. The extraocular muscles were functioning, but Mark feared the optic nerve was somehow damaged. Possibly even the neurons in his brain. 

“Am I permanently blind?” 

Sam’s soft voice startled Mark, he had been so deeply in thought. 

“I’m a little out of my depth here,” Mark said honestly. “This was some kind of . . . curse, your father said. So maybe through some kind of curse breaking . . .” 

“That probably won’t work,” Sam said flatly. “The creature was leeching people’s energy and abilities. It died after taking my eyes.” 

Mark swallowed. “Well, I don’t know anything about that, as I said. Medical healing is out of the question, though I will advise your father to take you to a specialist anyway.” 

“Can you get Dean, please?” Sam’s voice cracked a bit, and Mark nodded before remembering Sam was blind. 

“Yeah. Hang in there, okay?” 

Mark left the kid, feeling all kinds of low. He broke the news gently to the older brother and father, Dean immediately demanding to see Sam. He watched the kid go—how old was he, sixteen?—and turned back to the father. 

“Sam’s going to be in for a rough time. I still think you should find a specialist, but I feel that they’ll think the same thing. Medically, there’s nothing we can do.” 

John bowed his head momentarily. “I’ll look for a way in our area of work, but I doubt my success,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. Mark responded anyway. 

“In any case, I would recommend helping Sam adjust. It will be a difficult process. The best idea would be to get a trained professional to help Sam learn how to get around, how to read Braille, and the numerous other areas that come with being blind.” 

John nodded. “Thank you for your help, Mark.” 

They left without much ado, the older brother’s arm wrapped around the younger. 

Mark watched them go and felt the dull sense he always had after a failure. Sometimes, he hated his job.


	2. Bobby

Bobby scowled at the sight of the Impala. John hadn’t even called beforehand. If Bobby didn’t want to set a bad example for the young’uns, he’d shoot the man full of rock salt.

He waited, arms crossed over his chest, as the car pulled to a stop. Bobby set his face deliberately in a scowl—it was too easy to smile at John’s boys—before waiting for Dean and Sam to clamber out as usual and run up to him. He didn’t want a hug, or in Dean’s case, a handshake. That was just what they did. Bobby did not have a soft spot for those two.

The boys didn’t climb out of the Impala, though, and Bobby’s scowl became real. If those two were somewhere else, then Bobby didn’t want to see the senior Winchester at all.

John pushed out of the car, and Bobby opened his mouth to tell him to get lost, when the backdoor opened. Oh. Maybe they had just been asleep.

“You got him, Dean?”

“He can hear, Dad.” Dean’s voice was unusually sharp, especially considering he was addressing his father, there.

“Hey Bobby.” John had turned to him, and Bobby grunted and nodded.

Then he saw Sam. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but then Dean was guiding him around the car door.

Bobby realized his mouth was open and shut it quickly before Dean could see. Kid could get all fired up if he thought anyone was making fun of Sam, aside from himself.

“John?” he asked weakly.

“You hear about those disappearances in Idaho?” John returned. “Thought it was a witch. Turned out it was this.” He handed over a rough sketch.

“And Sam . . .”

“Got caught. Thing took his eyesight.” John wasn’t one for long speeches. “Dean, get him to bed.”

“It’s four in the afternoon, he doesn’t need to go to bed.” Dean nearly snarled. John raised an eyebrow, and Dean added in a sullen, “sir.”

“Do as I say,” John commanded.

Bobby watched in amazement as the boys made their way into his house, Sam stumbling slightly on the porch stairs. Not one month ago, he had met up with John for a hunt, and Sam had bucked every time John insinuated any kind of command, no matter how reasonable. Now, the fire was just drained away. Or maybe siphoned into Dean.

“So Sam’s blind?” Bobby checked. Just in case he had temporarily gone insane.

John sighed heavily. “Yeah. And I’m about as lost as I can be.” He turned his intense eyes onto Bobby. “Can you research this? If there’s any way to reverse it, I . . .”

“Yeah, sure.”

“How would you feel about me leaving them here?” John suddenly said, and Bobby felt a flare of anger. A man shouldn’t abandon his kids at a time like this.

“Why?” he asked.

“I need to do something, to make this better. There are libraries. I need to research as well.”

“Or you could stay here and support your boys,” Bobby said flatly.

Anger spasmed across John’s face before disappearing. “Sam has Dean. They’re making do.”

That wasn’t Bobby’s point, but he felt the uselessness of his position. “Go on. I’ll take care of them.”

* * *

“Dinner,” Bobby yelled. No need to act weird because Sam was . . . Sam was blind.

Normally, that call resulted in thumping and wrestling as the boys would try to beat each other to the table.

Now, Dean had Sam on his back, piggy-backing down the stairs.

“You sure that’s safe, Dean?” Bobby drawled.

Sam flushed and wriggled off Dean’s back. Thankfully, they were already at the base.

“Sam, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m fine.” Sam insisted, the first words Bobby had heard him speak since they had arrived.

“Uh huh.” Dean ignored Sam’s attempt to reach out to the wall and put a hand on his back, pressing him forward. Bobby shook himself and moved back to the kitchen.

“Sit here.” Dean pressed Sam down into a chair.

“What are we eating?” Sam asked softly.

“Um . . .” Dean looked at the food and then up at Bobby, something like horror in his face. Bobby looked at the spaghetti and then cringed. He mouthed “sorry” to Dean and moved to the fridge to hunt down something that Sam could eat.

“Looks like Bobby wasn’t ready for us.”

Sam frowned. “What is it?”

“Spaghetti. No worries, I’m sure we can get you a sandwich or something.” Dean turned anguished eyes on Bobby, who scrambled through his cupboards.

“It’s okay, I’m not hungry,” Sam mumbled. He got up from his chair, making his way out of the room with difficulty, tripping over the threshold of the kitchen and nearly falling.

“Sammy, c’mon, you have to eat. You barely ate anything at lunch,” Dean pleaded.

“I’m not hungry,” Sam repeated, shoving past Dean. Bobby got out the peanut butter and jelly anyway, quickly slapping together a sandwich. Dean saw it, and took it with a grateful look.

“Sam, it’s good ol’ PB & J, you’re not gonna turn down that, are you?”

“No, Dean.” Sam moved into the living room, and Bobby realized with a wince just how many dangers his very house posed to Sam. The scattered papers, old beer bottles on the rickety end tables, knife lying unsheathed on his desk . . .

“Sam, you need to eat.”

“I said no, Dean!” Sam burst out, the rage and anguish mixed together so Bobby couldn’t tell them apart.

He expected Dean to back off, but instead Dean took a step closer, laying his hand softly on Sam’s shoulder.

“Please, Sammy. For me.”

It was the magic phrase. There was a pause, and then Sam took the sandwich, and ate it in small, tired bites.

“You boys should get some rest,” Bobby said gruffly.

“Let’s go upstairs, okay?” Dean helped Sam to his feet, only to be stopped by Sam’s hand against his chest.

“You still need to eat, Dean. I’ll wait out here.”

Dean was obviously hovering with indecision, and Bobby decided for him.

“Go on Dean, I’ll help Sam upstairs.”

Dean ruffled Sam’s hair and went back into the kitchen.

“C’mon, then.” Bobby took a hint from Dean’s behavior and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, guiding him forward. He deliberately avoided looking at the kid’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? I should be the one sorry for tryin’ to make you eat spaghetti.”

Sam shook his head, his hair obscuring his disturbing eyes.

“You need a shower, or . . .”

“Uh, sure. I can manage.”

Bobby dropped Sam off at the bathroom, and refused to acknowledge his relief at leaving Sam there.

“He okay?”

Dean must’ve scarfed down his dinner. “Yeah,” Bobby grunted. Dean immediately made to move past Bobby, but Bobby held up a hand. “Dean, hang on.”

“What?”

There were too many questions, but Bobby asked the first that came into his mind. “Are you okay?”

Dean laughed incredulously. “Me? I’m not the one who’s friggin’ blind, Bobby.”

“This is a big . . . a big change. I just want to make sure you don’t burn out.”

Dean seemed to reevaluate Bobby. “Sam’s the most important right now,” he said bluntly.

Bobby felt a rush of embarrassment as Dean went past to Sam’s room. He had always preferred Dean, preferred his loud personality, his grins, his hunter prowess. And the selfish thought that had first crossed his brain, when John told him what happened, was that at least Dean hadn’t been blinded.

Bobby needed a drink.

By the time he was ready for bed himself, Bobby allowed himself to wander upstairs, just to check on them.

To his surprise, or maybe not, they were sharing the same bed, Sam curled up in Dean’s arms.

Bobby decided then that he would do what he could to help them. Both of them. And if John decided that he would leave his boys behind, well, Bobby had room.


	3. Caleb

Like a lot of hunters, Caleb didn’t really have a home base. Instead, he had strategically placed cabins around the country. Well-stocked in cases of emergencies.

This didn’t count as an emergency. Thus, his annoyance.

“Caleb, I’m serious. Any lore on this?”

Caleb smirked at the rough drawing. “Did you have your kid draw this?”

John glowered, an expression that probably got him everywhere, but Caleb was far past being intimidated by any human being. “Lemme see him.”

Caleb surveyed Dean with satisfaction—kid was turning into a real hunter, now—and turned his gaze on the younger.

“Youse guys hit the town, Sam an’ I’ll get to work.” Caleb noted the glare he got from Dean as he took a hold of Sam’s shoulder, but ignored it. Only thing family was good for was getting in the way.

Sambo here was a prime example of that.

“Can you . . . can you help?” Kid’s voice actually had hope in it.

“No. Prolly not,” Caleb said casually. Sam’s shoulders slumped.

“What are you doing, then?”

“Me? I’m looking out for the interests of one Mr. John Winchester. Guy saved my hide once. I’m returning the favor.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, and if the kid could see, he’d be staring at Caleb in confusion.

“I’m checking into this,” Caleb clarified. He manhandled the kid into sitting at his table, tilting his face and looking at those creepy eyes. “I researched those symbols the creature painted on you, and kid, you sure know how to hit the worse possible area. Completely obscure. Only references talk about ancient powers, etc etc. Your eyesight’s gone, kid.”

Sam yanked his face out of Caleb’s reach. “So why am I even here? Call my dad back, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

Caleb leaned forward, so he was right in Sam’s face. “I said before, John saved my life. I’m returning the favor.”

“How?”

“Making sure you don’t get him killed. Or your brother, for that matter.”

Sam blanched. “What?”

“Chances are, now that you’re blind, it’ll be ten times harder to get around. John’ll have to worry about something as simple as leaving you at a motel. Dean’s training’ll fall to the wayside, as he focuses on helping you get around. The money spent on ammo and hunting supplies’ll go to lessons teaching you to piss without making a mess.” Caleb sneered at Sam, wishing he could see it. He hated kids.

“So what are you saying I should do?” Tears were trembling in Sam’s voice.

“Man up. From what I heard, you were on quite the anti-hunting crusade.”

“How do you kno—”

“Well, you’ve learned your lesson. Hunting isn’t for the weak. So you learn to be self-sufficient, you hear me? Your life is awful. Get over it.” Caleb leaned back, satisfied with the tremors running through Sam’s arms and the way his teeth were sinking into his bottom lip. “Do you hear me?”

Sam nodded, pulling his arms in tight around his body. They sat in silence, Sam on edge, Caleb at his ease. Just the way he liked it.

* * *

“You figure out anything?”

Dean was painfully eager, and Caleb forced his face into a slightly softer version of his normal scowl. Chances were Dean would turn into a valuable asset.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I got nothing.”

Dean’s face folded momentarily before he strode over to Sam.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Caleb heard whispered. Dean put his hands on Sam’s shoulders, gently kneading the tense muscles and Caleb couldn’t help sneering. Emotional attachments made you weak. Hopefully Dean would eventually learn that.

“Any hunts you need help on?” John asked.

Caleb considered him. “There’s a possible werewolf pack nearby. I was gonna wait until I had a couple buddies. You and Dean should do.”

Dean looked up sharply. “What about Sam?”

Caleb shrugged. “He could stay here. Or in the car.”

Dean was up in Caleb’s face without warning. “He was just blinded, you moron. You think we would leave him alone now, when he—”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam interjected. “I can stay in the Impala. I’ll just be sitting.” Caleb felt a surge of slight approval.

Dean scowled. “No, it’s not okay. Get someone else to help you two, I’m staying with Sam.”

John looked uncertainly at his kids, and Caleb hid away a sneer.

“We’re not. Not this time,” Dean said strongly.

John scrubbed his face. “Sorry, Caleb. Dean’s right, it’s too soon. Sam can’t even get around on his own.”

“Stop talking about him like he’s not here,” Dean snarled. “C’mon, Sam, let’s go outside.”

“Kay.” Sam was led outdoors, and Caleb didn’t miss Dean’s nasty gesture, directed at Caleb, behind his back.

“Sorry,” John said again, weakly.

“John, what are you going to do with Sam?”

“I, what do you mean?”

“You can’t hunt with such a burden.”

John sighed. “I know. I don’t think Dean’ll hold for me putting him in some kind of special school for the blind, though.”

“It would be smarter,” Caleb said shortly.

John looked towards the door. “We’ll see,” he said softly. “Call me if you need help on a hunt.”

“I’ll get someone else for the werewolves. I hear there’s a nasty haunting in Wyoming.”

John nodded. “I’ll handle that. Thanks again, Caleb.”

“Sure thing.” Caleb watched him go and sighed. Only idiots let themselves get so wrapped up in people. Caleb had learned long ago that the only thing you could trust in was yourself. That kid would get the rest of the Winchesters killed. It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was so mean to Caleb's character. I needed a mean outside POV and he was convenient.


	4. Pastor Jim

Sundays were always Jim’s favorite. For obvious reasons. He accepted the handshake from one his parishioners with a smile and a blessing. He turned to the next in the queue of people at the door and stopped short.

“John?” he asked.

“We need to talk,” John said smoothly, taking his hand like he was just any other member of the congregation and moving on.

“Of course,” Jim managed. This Sunday was about to get a lot more interesting.

After he had locked up, Jim made his way to his attached house, unsurprised to find John lounging on the front step. He was just lucky John hadn’t picked the lock.

“How can I help, John?” he asked, unlocking the door.

“There’s a hunt, nearby.” Straight to business, John Winchester. Jim liked that about him.

“And you need my help?” he surmised.

“No. I need someone to watch my boys.”

Jim reevaluated John. He looked a little more harried than usual, maybe it had something to do with his request. “Last I talked to you, you were taking those two on the hunts with you. This big bad hurting teenagers?”

John blinked at him. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Sam . . . Sam’s blind.”

Jim rarely had to ask anyone to repeat themselves—years of listening to prayer requests from quiet ninety-year olds to shy nine-year olds had given him that skill. But that couldn’t be right.

“Blind?” he checked.

“Yeah, ‘bout a month ago.” John scrubbed his face wearily. “Look, I don’t have time to explain it now. Can you take them? Just until Wednesday, at latest.”

Jim swallowed all of his questions and nodded. He may not approve of John’s methods much of the time, but he would always support him. “I’ll get the guest room set up.”

“Thanks, Jim.” John briefly set a heavy paw on Jim’s shoulder before striding out the door.

Jim took a second to reassess. Sam—the bright thirteen year old who was so eager to learn—blind. Jim sent up a silent prayer for strength and wisdom before turning on his house with a vicious eye. Several of the elder in his congregation had hinted that Jim should marry, more proper for a pastor to be married, and now, if only for the sake of having a cleaner house, Jim wished he would’ve listened. As he was scooping up various trash and scattered papers, the Winchesters snuck up on him.

“Dean, help Pastor Jim,” John commanded. Jim turned, expecting to see Dean immediately jump into action—a command from his father, if Jim recollected correctly, was like law—but Dean was steering Sam to the couch first, then turning to help.

“Sorry about the mess,” Jim apologized automatically.

Dean spared him a brief shrug and grin, but his attention was mostly on the youngest Winchester.

“Sam, you need to use the restroom?” Dean asked.

“No, I’m good.” Sam’s voice was a bare whisper.

“Boys, be good.” John turned to Jim and looked so pathetically grateful that John felt his apprehensions melt away.

“They’ll be fine,” Jim said reassuringly. John left after murmuring something in Dean’s ear. He didn’t say anything to Sam, Jim noted with disapproval, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You boys hungry? It’s about lunch time,” Jim asked.

“Yes, we are.” Dean’s strong voice surprised Jim, but judging from the way Sam shrank, Jim realized he probably would’ve refused any food.

“How does grilled cheese sound? Sam, you like to dip it in tomato soup, right?”

Sam’s head jerked up slightly in the first sign of recognition since they had arrived. “Uh, yeah.”

“C’mon, then. Get up, turn to your left, walk about ten paces straight,” Jim said casually.

Dean stared at Jim, opening his mouth as if to protest. Jim grabbed Dean’s shoulder warningly and shook his head.

“Could you get the plates, Dean? I’ll make the sandwiches. If you could, there’s a can of tomato soup in the pantry.”

Dean gave him a look like he was crazy, but obeyed. Jim noted his worried glances at Sam, who had just now gotten to his feet.

Jim deliberately straightened one of the chairs, creating a scraping sound. Clattering pans, opening the fridge door . . . he was out of his depth with this, but hopefully was doing the right thing.

When Jim turned around, Sam was a foot from the table.

“Table’s right in front of you, Sam,” he cautioned.

Sam flushed bright red. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem.”

Lunch went by without a hitch. Jim asked Sam what happened, and Sam told the story, if a little hesitantly. The rest of the day passed smoothly, Jim and Dean doing some cleaning, Sam listening to one of the sermons Jim had taped.

At dinner, Jim brought up a topic he had been waiting to talk through. “Sam, have you worked with a professional?”

Sam stiffened. “What for?”

“Getting around, using a cane, reading Braille.”

Sam ducked his head. “No.”

Dean sneered, though not at Jim or Sam. “We haven’t stayed in one place long enough, not since . . .”

Jim leaned forward. “I know someone who could help. How about you boys stick around for a month or so?”

Dean’s glance darted between Sam and Jim. “Um, Dad . . .”

Jim said coolly, “I think he’ll be fine. I’ll convince him.”

Dean nodded.

“Sam?” Jim asked.

“I guess.” Sam took another bite of his grilled cheese, and Jim felt a surge of satisfaction. Maybe he could help these two.

* * *

As Sam was taking his shower, Dean approached Jim. “Thank you,” he said. “No one’s . . . no one’s treated him normal. Or even asked him what happened. I think that helped.”

Jim nodded. “One of my parishioners contracted glaucoma, last year. It’s a difficult process, but I think you two will do fine.”

Dean laughed shakily, and Jim noted the weariness dripping off the boy’s shoulders. “I wasn’t sure, for a bit.”

Jim smiled. “You still have Sam. He has you.”

Dean straightened a little. “Yeah. And Sam’s strong. He can handle it.”

Jim frowned. “Make sure you don’t need him to be. I know this will be tough on you, but in the past, Sam’s mentioned feeling useless, especially on hunts. His blindness will only exaggerate this feeling.”

Dean looked troubled. “I didn’t know he felt that way.”

“Don’t worry too much. As I said, you’ll be fine. God is watching over the two of you.”

He was unsurprised at Dean’s sneer. “God? Where was God when Sam was being blinded?”

“He was there, making sure you could save Sam from death,” Jim said calmly. “We can’t always see what God has planned, Dean.”

Dean deflated. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe, not in that.”

Jim ignored the feeling of failure that bubbled up and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll find your faith some day, Dean. You can’t carry the world by yourself. Let Him take some of the burden.”

Dean twitched, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, and Jim took pity on him. “Go on, sounds like Sam’s out of the shower.”

The subdued, “thanks Jim,” was enough for now.

* * *

Jim stayed up later, straightening up his house a little more. If the Winchester boys were going to stay, Jim needed to make sure his breakables were put away. Last time, their wrestling had broken a vase.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t be roughhousing for quite some time.

“Pastor Jim?”

“Sam.” Jim was surprised. “What are you doing up?”

“I wanted to talk with you.”

“We could talk tomorrow,” Jim suggested. “You look wiped.”

An uncharacteristically bitter expression crossed Sam’s face. “Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Jim took his elbow and steered him to the kitchen, plopping him down at the table.

“Hot chocolate?”

Some of Sam’s defiance drained away. “Yes please.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

Sam’s fingers twisted together on the tabletop. “I wanted to ask you about, well, God.”

Jim hummed, inviting Sam to continue.

“Is this . . . is this a punishment?” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper.

Jim knew there would be reasons he would need to extract, but he immediately told Sam firmly, “no.” He poured the hot chocolate and then settled down across from Sam. “Why would you think that?”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “I deserve it,” he murmured. “I’ve always been unhappy, and complaining about hunting, and it feels like God’s punishing me.”

For a moment, Jim allowed himself an un-Christian surge of anger against one John Winchester. The way these boys were raised . . . well, Jim had already gone through several fierce arguments with the man, but had never gained an inch.

“Sam, God’s not punishing you. Just because you don’t like hunting doesn’t mean that you are being punished. Your blindness isn’t a curse. God knows how strong you are, and he is testing your limits. Trust in Him, and the burden will feel lighter.”

Jim let Sam digest that, testing the temperature of the hot chocolate before pushing it into Sam’s hands.

They drank their hot cocoa in silence, and then Sam extended his hands.

“Pray for me?” he asked.

“Of course,” Jim said, pressing back the emotion that threatened to clog his throat. He thought to himself silently, that if half the world were as strong as Sam Winchester, then, well, they would be a lot closer to God’s kingdom. But for now, all he had was a very lost couple of boys. And Jim would do what he could to help.


	5. The Professional

Madeline owed Jim a lot for getting her through the divorce, but she had never been so put-off by a request before.

“Hi Maddie,” her pastor greeted her at the door.

“Okay, hold on.” Madeline held up a finger. “One, what on earth is with the secretive, ‘don’t tell anyone about this’ huh? You have the mafia after you? And two, how on earth am I supposed to help this boy if you won’t tell me how he was blinded in the first place?”

Jim looked at her patiently. “Maddie, I’ve told you before and I'll say it again; have faith.”

“Oh, that’s an excuse,” Madeline grouched, but she made her way into the house anyway. “Where is he?”

“Sam?” Jim called, just as Madeline walked into the living room. Two boys were sitting close together on the ratty carpet, messing with something that quickly disappeared as soon as she got close.

“Yes?” The small one looked up, hair mostly covering his white eyes. Madeline suppressed a frown. A physical trait like that didn’t come from recent trauma, but she had told Jim that she wouldn’t ask questions about that.

“Sam, Madeline is here to help you.”

“Okay.” The boy got up too quickly, nearly losing his balance and holding out a hand in the wrong direction. “Um, hi.”

“I’m over here,” Madeline told him.

Sam corrected himself admirably, and Madeline took his hand firmly.

“I’m Dean.” Everything about the boy-man screamed protectiveness. Older brother? Madeline could smell trouble and headed it off with a smooth smile.

“Hello, Dean, are you going to be around?”

Dean bristled. “Yes.”

“Then I need you to not interfere. Thank you.” Madeline ignored his outrage and turned back to Sam. “Are you ready to begin?”

Sam was rubbing his hands together nervously. “Uh huh.”

“No, Sam. Are you ready? Because if you’re not, then this is a waste of my time.”

Something flashed across the boy’s face—a mixture of an instinct to immediately rebel against commands that was immediately squashed by a wave of determination, as far as Madeline could tell. “I’m ready,” he said shortly. “Tell me what to do.”

Madeline took a deep breath. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

Working with Sam and Dean was like no other job Madeline had taken. Normally, she asked the family members to leave for at the very least, a couple weeks in order for independence to come before anything else.

Dean refused to leave.

Madeline had then, after a swift argument with Jim, had to deal with him, even knowing that it would take twice as long if Dean was around to cripple any progress Sam tried to make.

But he didn’t. If anything, he was more tough on Sam than Madeline was.

The psychology of them was all wrong, and Madeline found it tough to try and predict how to best help Sam. Oh, the physical stuff was simple enough. Sam, like many who had been blinded, struggled to re-learn the basics of living; getting around, putting on his clothes, reading Braille to read. He was a quick learner, though, so that wasn’t the biggest problem.

If anything, he tried too much too soon.

“Walk before we run, Sam,” Madeline sighed, holding the ice pack to Sam’s forehead.

“Thanks,” Sam muttered, taking a hold of the pack himself and settling back in the chair more firmly. “I just thought I had the layout down.”

“You did, but you can’t forget to account for random variables. In this case, Pastor Jim’s book.”

“Was it sticking out from the edge?”

“Yeah."

Sam winced, lowering the ice pack. “So what did I trip on after that?”

“The rug.”

Self-disgust chased frustration across Sam's face.

“So I should use my cane at all times?”

Madeline made a small sound of dissent. “You just have to get a handle on your surroundings. Sensing when things are close.”

“Hey! What happened here?”

“I fell,” Sam muttered, his attention immediately leaving Madeline and focusing on Dean. “You have fun?”

“Loads of fun. Barrels. Tons. Y’know. A lot.”

Dean drew a small smile out of Sam, even though it was tight. Madeline glanced at her watch and then stood.

“I’ll get out of your hair, Sam,” she said. “Work on your Braille tonight, okay?”

Sam sighed, but Dean grinned. “Aw Sammy, you telling me that you’re gonna try and get out of some reading? What happened to my geek?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam groused, but it was only form.

Madeline felt, not for the first time, that she was intruding, and swiftly left.

* * *

Madeline came in one day to find Dean pacing in the living room.

“Problem?”

Dean’s haggard face met her. “He’s just . . . he’s in his room. I don’t know . . . he won’t talk to me.”

Damage control, then. Madeline stiffened herself for tears and anger and headed into the bedroom.

Sam was curled on the floor at the foot of the bed, eyelids closed.

“Sam?” Madeline asked gently. “It’s time for your lessons.”

Madeline had thought maybe it was a temper tantrum, but she should’ve known better from the look on Dean’s face. Sam was locked inside his own head, deep and far away.

“Sam, sweetie, look at me.” Madeline tried to coax him out, but nothing seemed to work.

“Sammy? Sammy, please.” Dean was there, next to her. “It’s not here. You’re safe, now. Hey.” Dean folded Sam in close as Madeline stared. It?

“Dean, I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Sam was a broken record, and Madeline abruptly felt that she would make things worse.

Going downstairs, she ran into Pastor Jim.

“I want to know what happened. Now,” she demanded.

“I can’t tell you,” Jim said patiently.

“Did someone do this to him?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

Something clicked, and all of Sam’s determination to not be a burden and his guilt and self-hatred . . . it made sense. “But something happened and now Sam thinks it’s his fault,” Madeline said aloud.

Jim winced. “Something like that. Look, I realize this is unorthodox—“ Madeline snorted at the understatement “—but they really need your help.”

“Trust me, I know.” Madeline rubbed her hands together and heaved in a deep breath. “Guess I better get back to work then, huh?”

* * *

Madeline couldn’t help feeling proud as Sam walked beside her, cane stretched out, barely brushing the grass in front of them.

“Are we in a park?”

“Uh huh. How are the rest of your senses?” she prodded.

“The wind’s kind of distracting, but I can sense you next to me.”

“Good.” Madeline paused, and Sam automatically stopped as well, turning towards her. Madeline smiled widely. “A couple more weeks and you won’t even need me anymore.”

“Madeline, thanks for this,” Sam said softly. “It helps, not being so . . . well, helpless.”

“I know, Sam. I’m just glad you’ve embraced wanting to be independent. It would be far too easy to lean on your brother, especially with the way he dotes on you.”

Madeline was surprised by a bitter twist to Sam’s mouth. “Yeah, I know. It’s why I couldn’t be too dependent on him. He deserves better.”

Madeline wasn’t sure how to respond, so she kept walking. “I’m glad you two have each other,” she finally said.

“Me too.”

* * *

Madeline knocked on Jim’s door to find her pastor looking tired and worn.

“Pastor Jim?” she prompted when he stared at her blankly.

“Oh. Maddie. The boys, they’re gone.”

A flash of panic shot through her. “Gone? Run away?”

“No.” Jim huffed a short laugh and looked like he didn’t really find it funny. “Their father came to pick them up.”

“Oh.” Madeline had never heard about their parents. Jim tended to bring in strays, and she had figured orphans. Apparently she had been wrong. “And they’ll . . . they’ll be okay?”

Jim looked solemnly at her. “I hope so.”


End file.
